


home, in a terrible way

by Prim_the_Amazing



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, geraskier can be read as platonic or romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:00:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23092972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/pseuds/Prim_the_Amazing
Summary: “It’s a building,” he says. “We should be able to weather out the storm there for a night or two.”“Oh, good!” he says. “I hope the people there are welcoming. Well, considering the general behavior of the locals… I’m sure I can charm them into at least letting us sleep in the stables with Roach.”That turns out to be unnecessary. The place is empty and silent.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 55
Kudos: 276





	home, in a terrible way

In a secluded part of Skellige (Jaskier hated being in Skellige, only went there when he was following him) there is a keep. It’s long abandoned, cold and crumbling. It was fine cover from a storm though, if you were traveling and there was no better place to hunker down for a couple of days for miles. Perfectly suitable. 

Geralt’s bones feel tired from the journey. He hasn’t slept in four days. Getting back had suddenly seemed so urgent, after so long of avoiding the place. It’s a cycle of desperately wanting to be as far away from here as possible, and of then feeling like he needs to be here more than he needs to breathe. He walks into the now familiar keep (home, in a terrible way) and closes his eyes for just a moment, letting the exhaustion wash over him. Listening to the distant sound of a lute being strummed somewhere inside. 

Home. In an awful sort of way. 

The first time Geralt sees the keep on the horizon, he’s been smelling building lightning in the air for half an hour. He’s restless and uneasy, or as Jaskier calls it, ‘tetchy’. 

He nods towards it and says, “Jaskier.” 

Jaskier squints in the keeps direction. “Geralt, I can’t see anything. You know that it’s dark, right?” 

He knows. They would’ve settled down to camp by now if it weren’t for the fact that they’re absolutely going to need proper shelter for the night. 

“It’s a building,” he says. “We should be able to weather out the storm there for a night or two.” 

“Oh, good!” he says. “I hope the people there are welcoming. Well, considering the general behavior of the locals… I’m sure I can charm them into at least letting us sleep in the stables with Roach.” 

That turns out to be unnecessary. The place is empty and silent. 

“Spooky,” Jaskier comments, taking a step closer to Geralt. “I mean, the atmosphere is definitely interesting, I could possibly write a song about this place…  _ after  _ you’ve checked it over for monsters first. Or the corpses of everyone who used to live here.” 

“Stay here with Roach,” he says, and steps inside to do just that. 

The keep is large and hollow, and has clearly been so for a long time. The tapestries and drapes are washed out and moth eaten, and dust lies thick on everything. He finds no monsters or people. He finds nothing living at all. 

“It’s clear,” he tells Jaskier, who sighs with relief and goes inside. The first drops of rain are falling by the time Geralt has Roach settled in the remains of the stable attached to the keep. He walks inside. 

“An entire keep, all for ourselves!” says Jaskier, joking. “Well, don’t I feel like royalty?” 

Geralt snorts. “The beds are so decrepit that we’re going to have to sleep on our bedrolls anyways.” 

“Rustic royalty, then,” he says, determinedly cheerful. 

Outside, the rain is already pounding down. Thunder rolls, distantly. 

Geralt wonders why the people who used to live here left this place. 

“Geralt!” Jaskier greets him. “Good morning to you. Been wandering the place?” 

The bard is sitting in his favorite spot that he doesn’t know is his favorite spot. The window seat with the view of the barren plains around them. 

“Jaskier,” he says, and sits down heavily opposite him on the window seat. He looks at him, taking in the faint crows feet around his blue eyes, his dark brown hair, the colorful outfit out of a dozen colorful outfits that he owns that he just happened to be wearing when they first arrived here. Black and magenta, with some clear gems sewn in at the cuffs and collar. He’s memorized it by now. 

“I was exploring earlier, and this place really does have an eerie sort of beauty,” he says. Geralt could mouth the words along with him. He watches Jaskier. He knows every line of his face, but he’s been gone on the Path for a long while this time. “I’ve been working on a song about it, just playing with the idea a bit.” 

Every time he leaves, he tells himself that it’s for good. 

“Hmm,” he says. 

Jaskier looks out of the window, out onto the view he’s seen countless times by now. “The storm seems to be over,” he remarks. “Looks like we won’t have to stay another night after all. When do you think we’ll be leaving?” 

Geralt is so tired of that question. He prefers it when it’s storming outside, when Jaskier says  _ looks like we’ll be staying a bit longer, my friend.  _

“Later,” is all he can bring himself to stay. “Let’s rest for now.” 

Jaskier looks at him. Really looks at him. 

“You didn’t sleep well last night, did you?” 

Geralt sighs. He never sleeps well any longer, if he sleeps at all. 

Jaskier makes a sympathetic noise. “Stone floor didn’t agree with you? Maybe we should have shared our rolls.” 

They should have. Geralt would have been closer to him. Able to help quicker. 

He closes his eyes, so tired. His chest hurts. His throat hurts. His temples, his eyes. He already regrets coming back here, is already remembering why he always leaves and tells himself  _ never again.  _

Something like a cold wind brushes over his forehead. He opens his eyes. Jaskier is frowning at him with concern. He withdraws his hand, back onto his lute. 

“Are you well, Geralt?” he asks him seriously. “Talk to me.” 

He has. He has talked to him, so many times. He’s tried. He’s so tired of trying. It only ever ends with Jaskier scared, worried and upset, and then… 

He stands up and walks away. Jaskier makes a noise, moves like he’s going to chase after him. 

“I’ll be back,” he tells him. “In just a moment.” 

Jaskier stops following him. “Well… alright. If you’re sure.” 

He’s clearly planning to bother him again about this later, perhaps when his mood appears to be better. Get at the root of the issue, find out what’s wrong. 

His mistake. 

Geralt had found no blood, no corpses, no signs of destruction, no track marks. He had smelled no beasts. He had searched every room of the keep, and found no movement, no rustling. 

He had not thought to check and see inside the walls for something creeping there, slow and silent, almost scentless underneath the dust. 

He goes outside and breathes. Checks over Roach. Waits until his heartbeat is witcher slow again. Listens for the sound of lute music to start up again. He walks back up. He finds Jaskier in his favorite spot. 

“Geralt!” Jaskier greets him. “Good morning to you. Been wandering the place?” 

He sits down, opposite of Jaskier. Doesn’t reply. 

“I was exploring earlier, and this place really does have an eerie sort of--” 

“Can I hear it?” he asks. 

Jaskier stutters to a stop. “Pardon?” 

“Your new song. That you’ve been working on.” 

It’s easier to just listen to Jaskier sing than it is to talk to him. To follow the familiar script. 

He just wants to hear his damned voice without wanting to break something. He’s been gone on his Path for a long while, this time. 

“Oh,” he says, and looks flustered in a happy sort of way. It never fails to make Geralt feel like shit, every time it happens. He’d never asked to hear Jaskier’s song before, had he? He hadn’t needed to. “You, ah, you noticed? Do you like it? Nevermind, I’ll let you hear all of what I’ve got so far before you decide.” 

He clears his throat, sets his hands. Closes his eyes. His face looks so clear when he does this. So focused. He starts to play. 

Geralt doesn’t know much about music, but he’s heard this song more times than he can count. The melody’s good, quiet and pretty. The lyrics have gaps in them, don’t quite rhyme in all of the places. Unfinished. It’s about the traces people leave behind of themselves, that other people who never even meet them can see and touch. A vast, quiet, too large place for two people to rest for a moment, to hide away from the world. A strange, safe place to sleep. 

Out of all of the songs Jaskier has ever composed, it’s the one that Geralt hates the most. But it’s easier to listen to it than to try and talk to him. 

The storm is raging outside, and Geralt has killed the thing that crept out of a hole behind a tapestry in the room they set camp in so quietly that it didn’t wake him, even only a few feet away. He has killed it, and he was too late. Jaskier’s blood is still warm, but the rest of him is rapidly going cold. 

It doesn’t seem right. That he’s been warm all of his life, but in only a few minutes he’s cold, and he will be cold forever. It should take longer to drain the warmth of a lifetime. 

Thunder rolls. Rain pours. Blood pools. Geralt breaths harshly. He is the only living thing left in this keep, is the only thing making any sound at all. 

He doesn’t know what to do. 

“Jaskier,” he says for some reason. “Jaskier, Jaskier, Jaskier.” 

Jaskier doesn’t say anything. Of course. 

He holds onto him, tight enough that it would have bruised if-- 

“Jaskier,” he chokes. He can’t hear his heartbeat. Of course not. His throat is torn open, exposed. 

He hates the feeling of touching his cold skin, limp and unmoving. But he can’t make himself let go. 

Thunder rolls. The sheets on the bedroll behind him shift, as if someone is moving around in their sleep. 

Geralt grabs his sword and whirls around. Lightning flashes, disrupting his night vision. 

“G’ralt,” Jaskier groans from the bedroll. “‘S something the matter…?” 

The Jaskier that was dragged out of his bedroll by something that wanted to take him back to its lair to eat slowly says nothing, behind him. 

Jaskier finishes his song, and looks up at him. He looks as if he’s hiding nerves. 

“Well?” he asks, and then, “It’s a work in progress, obviously. And I know it’s not going to be my magnum opus or anything, but it’s important to stay in the habit of creating, and you never know when a little ditty you write might take off or not, and--” 

“Good melody,” he says. Jaskier beams. Geralt remembers why he always tells himself that this is the last time he’ll ever see this place when he leaves, and he remembers why he always comes back all in the same moment. 

“I thought so too,” he says, pleased and a little bit embarrassed by Geralt’s rare praise. It wasn’t even that much of a compliment. He wants to kill something. 

Jaskier never remembers new information. He always thinks they’re just staying for a night or two to avoid the storm. He never changes. If Geralt tries to force the issue, if he roars and shoves evidence into his face, then maybe for just a moment or two, he flickers. Bloody and ghastly. It’s better to just leave him like this. Peaceful and content, strumming his lute in a vast, empty keep, forever working on his latest song. Knowing that it probably won’t amount to much but enjoying his craft anyways, and that he’ll have breakfast with Geralt soon, and then they’ll leave this place behind on Roach, heading towards warmer climates where he’ll be more comfortable. 

If he had lived, if he had really left, he would have been dead by now of old age. 

Geralt closes his eyes. He’s tired down to his bones. Jaskier starts playing the song again, this time without the lyrics that make him want to break something. Just the eerie, lonely melody, that even Geralt can grant is nice. 

He’s home. 


End file.
